


i thought i knew (but i didn't)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier had slept around a lot before meeting Geralt, but he had never been in love. Not before Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 300





	i thought i knew (but i didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: korrmin / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier had never had a _real_ relationship before—he had slept around a lot, sure, and even spent a few days with a bed partner here and there, but he had never actually had a relationship, something lasting. Had never craved one, even, but _all_ of that changed when he met Geralt.

He had met him, tucked away in a dark corner of a tavern, and everything had changed. Like magic.

The night they had gotten together—for the first time—was still one of Jaskier’s fondest memories.

It was months after the dragon hunt, after Geralt had tracked him down and apologized, looking guiltier than Jaskier had ever seen him.

It had been dark, stars in the sky. They had been beating around the bush for a while now, ever since they had reunited. Jaskier didn’t know why. He certainly knew how _he_ felt.

He was pretty sure Geralt felt the same way, even if he hadn’t expressed it in so many words.

But he was scared in a way he never had been before.

What if he was wrong—what if he kissed Geralt and he pushed him away, frowning?

What if he _didn’t?_

What if he kissed back, slipping his hands up to tangle in his hair?

If he kissed back, what would that mean for them? Jaskier _wanted_ him, he did, every and any way he could have him, but he was also well aware of his faults. He had never been in a relationship before; what if they did all this and he ruined it?

Could he live with himself?

If he ruined things, _as he often did_ , could they go back to being just friends? Geralt, certainly, but not Jaskier. This was it for him; a moment that mattered unlike any other.

Jaskier was so busy brooding he barely even noticed when Geralt had moved over, joining him on his bedroll. But there was no missing what happened next:

Geralt’s hand on his leg, an uncharacteristically shy smile on his face. Jaskier’s heart skipping a beat.

“Can I?” he had asked, like he didn’t know the answer.

Jaskier had nodded dumbly, and then they were kissing, soft and sweet and full of promises.

After that, they had needed no words. They were together; it was just a simple fact of life, like humans needing air to breathe. Jaskier was the happiest he had ever been, though life was far from always pleasant. There was still a war, still a young girl who needed their help.

But in those unpleasant moments, they had each other.

And—Yennefer.

Yennefer was the part of the puzzle that Jaskier just couldn’t make fit. Not at first.

They had met her a few times before ever solidifying their relationship. Geralt had slept with her, Jaskier knew that, but they had never really been _together_.

Geralt was with _him_ now. Next time they saw her, things would be different.

Jaskier knew that and yet when Geralt held him at night and said, “We need to find her. For Ciri,” Jaskier’s stomach churned uncomfortably.

He was right. Of course he was right; the young girl needed someone who knew more about magic.

But that didn’t mean he had to be happy, though he faked it wonderfully. He rolled over and touched Geralt’s cheek, rough with stubble. “Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll find her.”

Geralt stared at him in the dark. “ _Jaskier_ ,” he said in a voice that made Jaskier feel— _something_. Unpleasant, certainly. He surged forward and kissed him, tossing a leg over to straddle him. Geralt hummed, hands moving to his hips, and the conversation was dropped just like that.

He was _always_ so easily distracted.

Yennefer was surprisingly easy to find. She opened the door and stared at them, eyes flickering from Geralt to Jaskier to the young girl between them.

“Gods have mercy,” she muttered, stepping out of the way. “Come in.”

Yennefer was living in a small cottage after Sodden Hill, enchanted to be much bigger on the inside. She led them to the kitchen, both impressive in size and obviously underused.

“Go,” she said to the young girl. “Pick a room.”

Cirilla hesitated for a moment before she took off down one of the long hallways. Yennefer poured them all tea, spiked with some kind of alcohol that burned the back of Jaskier’s throat.

He wasn’t complaining, of course.

“Why did you come here?” she asked, smiling sickeningly sweet at Geralt. “Missed me?”

Jaskier’s stomach did it again: churned, like he’d consumed rotten milk for breakfast. Didn’t help that there was also a rotten taste in the back of his throat.

“Yen,” he said, almost a sigh, as he grasped Jaskier’s hand on top of the table. “We need your help.”

She glanced at their hands. “Oh,” she said. “How unexpected, but no less interesting.”

Jaskier frowned as she looked back up, eyes flickering between them. Geralt squeezed his hand. His stomach churned again and he swallowed back the bitter taste of—of the tea, maybe. He wondered idly what she had put in it.

“With the girl,” he said gruffly.

Yennefer arched an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. “I do understand. Well, why not. I haven’t been doing much else these days.”

“Just like that?” Jaskier asked skeptically. “You don’t want anything?”

Yennefer barely looked at him as she answered, “We’ll talk more in the morning. Go, pick a room.”

He glanced at Geralt, who nodded, and they both stood up, still holding hands. They were almost to the door when Yenner said, “Wait,” and they both turned. She sauntered over and placed a hand, fingernails painted black, on Geralt’s arm.

Jaskier watched, speechless for once in his life.

“Yen,” Geralt said roughly, firmly, shrugging her hand off. “No.”

She looked surprised, but not angry. “Is this—” she gestured between them with a finger “— _Oh_.”

Jaskier didn’t know what that meant, and he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but _here_. He tugged on Geralt’s hand, and he glanced at him with a definite nod, turning back.

“It is,” he said simply. “Goodnight, Yennefer.”

Turning around, they left the kitchen without another interruption.

Jaskier watched, days later, as Yennefer and Geralt trained Cirilla. He couldn’t do much, just be a spectator and offer lighthearted support when Cirilla finally managed something. He spent most of the time perched on a rock, working on his newest ballad; the public were getting tired of the same songs.

Yennefer sighed after a moment and lifted her hair off her shoulders, tying it up.

Normal enough, given the heat of the day, but—Jaskier noticed Geralt watching her.

He frowned and looked down; the ink had smudged, ruining the parchment. “Fuck,” he grumbled as he scrunched it up and tossed it.

Jaskier had always been sure of himself. Not at first, maybe, but soon after leaving at eighteen and starting his career things had shifted drastically.

Probably helped that women—and men—had fawned over him, slept with him, fanned his ego.

Jaskier knew he was a sight to behold, if only because confidence was magic in and of itself. If you held yourself with enough of it, you could do anything.

Geralt had been different, from the start. He hadn’t been infatuated with Jaskier or impressed with any of his usual skills. Maybe that was why things had been different with him in other ways—why Jaskier had found himself so drawn to him in the first place.

Maybe he _liked_ the fact Geralt looked and saw _him_ , not the mask he had spent so long constructing.

But before he could do much about it they had met Yennefer. Unlike with him, Geralt was infatuated with her instantly.

Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised. She was pretty and sharp and powerful.

He might’ve even respected it—their rocky relationship—if he thought she deserved him, but she didn’t. They weren’t a good match.

Geralt had chased after her like a dog until the dragon hunt, when things had changed for all of them.

They had broken up (if they had ever really even been _together_ ), and then gone their separate ways. Geralt had snapped at him, and Jaskier had left, feeling numb.

Then—

They had reunited, and Geralt had looked at him like he was seeing him again for the first time in a long time. Jaskier’s heart had skipped a beat.

It had been the beginning of them, and Jaskier would be damned if there would ever be an end in sight.

Sighing, he rolled over and opened his eyes. The bed was empty next to him, the blankets pushed back. Glancing at the window, he saw it was still night.

Frowning, Jaskier sat up and stretched, eyes flickering around the room.

Geralt sometimes had trouble sleeping, he knew that. Nightmares and the such, though he would never admit it in so many words.

Standing up, he found his trousers on the floor and tugged them on before leaving the room. The hallway was dark with no windows; he tiptoed—by Cirilla’s room, and Yennefer’s room, and to the kitchen. Predictably there was a warm glow coming from the kitchen; candles. Smiling slightly, he walked closer, pausing when he heard—

“I never would’ve guessed,” Yennefer’s voice, “You and the bard.”

Jaskier stopped right before the door, a hand on the wall. He peeked around the bend, just barely.

“Sometimes the things you expect less are exactly what you need.” _Geralt_.

“Hmm,” she hummed, reaching over and placing a hand on his arm. “Perhaps.”

Jaskier stared at her hand on his arm. There was a pause, too long, before Geralt said, “He’s—”

He stopped suddenly, and Jaskier startled, jumping back.

“Jaskier,” he said, an odd tilt to his voice. “What are you doing? Come out.”

He stepped forward, pausing in the doorway. Yennefer stood up, clad in a slinky nightgown, and walked to him. She patted his arm, once, before she slipped past him and down the hallway. Jaskier wanted to yell at her, but he didn’t have the energy.

Not to mention she hadn’t even done anything _wrong_ , had she? Friends were allowed to touch. Jaskier felt like he was losing control of himself. He had never felt this way before, and it was honestly kind of scaring him.

Geralt was sitting in one of the chairs. He scooted out the one next to him, a silent invitation.

Jaskier walked over on numb legs and sat down. “I think I might be sick,” he said. Geralt looked at him oddly and he continued, staring at his hands. “I—I don’t feel good. Haven’t since we arrived here.”

“Do you know why?” he asked, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Jaskier almost sobbed at the casual touch of intimacy. What was wrong with him? He had everything he wanted—Geralt was _here_ , with him, not chasing after Yennefer.

Why did he feel so—

 _Insecure_.

He felt like he was constantly on the edge of a cliff, wind blowing rapidly at his back, waiting for him to just make one mistake and _fall_.

“Julian,” Geralt said; he only ever called him that when they were alone. “Hey, look at me.”

He looked up into Geralt’s eyes, uncharacteristically soft and questioning. Jaskier reached up and cupped the side of his face. He thought of Yennefer’s hands, smaller and softer. Had they touched his face like this, at one point?

Which hands did Geralt prefer? Jaskier’s hands were rough from years of playing, calloused over.

“You’re thinking too much,” he heard him say. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Jaskier smiled slightly, brushing his thumb across his cheek, lightly over the scar that stretched across his face. Geralt smiled back, just the barest hint of teeth.

“What’s going on, Jaskier?” he asked quietly. “You can talk to me.”

It was such a change from the Geralt he had first met. Jaskier leaned in. “We can talk,” he said. “ _Later_.”

Stumbling back to their bedroom, they fell in the bed together, laughing, and Geralt wiped away all of Jaskier’s insecurities with his hands.

Jaskier woke up in the morning. Geralt was asleep, snoring lightly, an arm thrown over his lap. Smiling, he sat up and gently moved his arm off. Geralt grumbled, “Jaskier?”, but quickly dozed off again when he didn’t get a reply.

Leaving the room, he walked to the kitchen.

Yennefer was there, still in her nightgown but with a robe thrown over it. “Oh,” she said. “Sleep well?”

Jaskier barely even realized what she was referencing until he noticed her eyes on his neck. He covered the marks of Geralt’s teeth with his hand. “Mhm,” he confirmed as he walked to the table and sat down. “What about you?”

“Here,” she said in way of a reply, sliding into the chair across from him with a plate of warm bread.

She halved it, and he took one piece, nibbling quietly.

Neither of them say anything for a while until finally Jaskier blurted, “Have you ever been jealous?”

Yennefer paused, chewed quickly and swallowed. “Do I look like I’ve ever known jealously?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. Jaskier almost took it at face value until she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Jealously is… a _complicated_ thing, Jaskier.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“See,” she leaned forward again, “you can’t be jealous unless you _care_ first.”

Jaskier stared at her, silent. Yennefer smiled sweetly.

“You slept around a lot—before Geralt, yes?” she asked, as if she didn’t know the answer. Jaskier nodded, picking apart what was left of his bread, no longer very hungry. “Say, you slept with a woman and then in the morning saw her sitting in the lap of another fellow.”

Jaskier waited.

“Would you feel it, that weight in the pit of your stomach?”

Jaskier was so surprised he didn’t even answer the question at first, “You know it. You’ve felt it.”

She tilted her head, eyelashes fluttering. “Perhaps. Don’t avoid the question.”

He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “I never felt it,” he said, meaning it. He had never felt jealous or even possessive over his previous bed partners. He might’ve acted like it, for their benefit. Or even just for a bit of fun. But he never actually felt anything. If anything, he was always happy when they moved on quickly. Yennefer stared at him, almost expectantly, and he added, “Not before meeting Geralt.”

Yennefer smiled, oddly sincere. “You think I’m a threat,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “How cute.”

“Are you not?” he replied instantly. “You had him first.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes, “And now _you_ have him.”

Jaskier looked at her, silent. He had nothing to say to that. She was right. Geralt might’ve had a short-lived romance with Yennefer, but that was in the past.

“I will not say your jealously is completely unfounded,” she continued, uncharacteristically soft.

Jaskier’s mouth twitched, almost a frown. Yennefer continued breezily, “You have no need to be threatened by _me_ ,” she said. “Geralt made it very clear you two are not having fun outside of your relationship. I respect that, despite what you may think of me.”

He nodded curtly.

“But others will undoubtedly take an interest in him,” she said. “However,” she added after a beat, “I do not think you have to worry.”

Jaskier had shredded his bread to pieces. With nothing left to do, he placed his hands in his lap. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“There’s no point if _I_ tell you,” she said flippantly. “ _Ask_ him, bard. Talk to him.”

Jaskier looked down. “I—” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t normally have a problem telling Geralt how he felt. Though he had struggled with confessing as well; Geralt had taken over for him, bless him. There was just something different about this, all of it, though he couldn’t pinpoint what.

Finally he looked back up. Yennefer arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“I’m scared,” he said, “of losing him.”

Yennefer smiled slightly. “And you will,” she said, “if you’re not honest with him.” She stood up suddenly, her chair scratching across the floor. “I was not—honest, that is—and look what happened to us.” Jaskier suddenly felt jealously and guilt all at once, an arrow twisting in his chest. She waved him off. “I told you, I am not a threat. Just—”

She looked away and back again.

“Do not make a mistake you don’t have to.”

Jaskier stood up, slower. “Um. Thank you. Yennefer.” He never thought he’d say those words.

She smiled, far too sweetly. “I’m going to take a day off with Ciri,” she said as she walked to the door, backwards. “She needs it, you know: a break every once in a while. Tell Geralt when he wakes up, and stop him from coming after us, the worrywart.”

Jaskier snorted, “I’ll try.”

Geralt walked into the kitchen at around eight, hair sticking up wildly. Jaskier suppressed a laugh as he slumped in the chair across from him. “Where are they?” he asked, like he was already dreading the answer.

“Out,” he answered simply. Geralt grimaced, and Jaskier reached over, placing a hand on his arm. “Yennefer is with her, Geralt. You know she’s _more_ than capable of taking care of her.”

Geralt pressed his lips together for a few seconds, looking torn before he finally relaxed again.

Smiling slightly, Jaskier pushed his plate across the table. “It’s a bit, well, less than appetizing,” he admitted, “but you can—” Geralt picked up some of the bread, torn by his fingers, and stuffed it in his mouth. Jaskier let out a soft laugh as he leaned back, watching him eat.

“What did you talk about?” he asked finally, and Jaskier startled slightly. “With Yennefer.”

This was it—his chance. It had been handed to him on a silver platter for the taking. Yennefer would surely curse him if he didn’t take it. “We talked about you,” he said slowly.

“Huh,” he said around a mouthful of bread, swallowing. “I don’t know if I should be concerned or not.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. Geralt was not at his best, not by far. His hair was still an untamed beast, crumbs on his chin, dark circles under his eyes—and yet he was still the most gorgeous person Jaskier had ever seen. There was not a moment Jaskier did not look at him and think he was the luckiest person alive, even in Geralt’s worst moments. Because he loved him, through and through, more than he had ever loved anyone.

He knew Geralt felt the same way, not because he had ever said it in so many words but because he _showed_ it—constantly, almost daily.

Geralt pampered him, gifted him things, washed his hair, protected him, even pleasured him at night. He didn’t _need_ words.

Jaskier took a shaky breath. “I’ve been feeling… _bad_ recently,” he said. “I told you that, remember?”

He nodded, a crease of worry forming between his eyebrows. “Spit it out, Jaskier,” he said, though not unkindly. Jaskier knew he was just worried, probably imagining the worst. This wasn’t that, obviously. He wasn’t dying or sick or even breaking things off with him.

“I’ve been jealous,” he said finally.

Geralt blinked. “What?” he asked. “Why?”

Jaskier almost laughed. Geralt could be so _dense_. He was lucky he loved him. “You and Yennefer,” he said like that explained everything. Geralt looked confused for a split-second before his expression smoothed into something softer and he stood up, walking around the table. Jaskier turned slightly in his chair, parting his legs so he could stand between them.

He placed his hands on his shoulders, heavy and warm. “I don’t want her, Jaskier,” he started, “but I can’t exactly blame you for your insecurities, considering words are not my strong suit.”

Jaskier smiled slightly, reaching up to wrap his fingers around his wrists. “You shouldn’t have to _convince_ me of anything, Geralt. I - I know you want me, _logically_. But then I see you with her and my brain stops working and my stomach feels heavy and - ”

Geralt squeezed his shoulders lightly. “You deserve words, Jaskier.” He sighed and thumbed at the soft skin of his neck. “I love you,” he said, and Jaskier’s heart nearly burst. Again, he knew that - logically - but they had never _said_ it. “In a way I have never loved before, and I’d sooner die than risk losing that because of misunderstandings or my own cowardice.”

“You are the farthest thing from a coward,” he said. “You are - you are so _brave_ , Geralt.”

Geralt snorted, hands smoothing down his shoulders and to his arms, tugging him up and off the chair. Jaskier pressed up against his chest. “I am not brave,” he said, silencing Jaskier before he could argue, “but I will try to be, for you.”

“I’ve never felt this way,” he said, “before meeting you.”

Geralt nodded. “I know.”

Jaskier smiled, a bit amused. “You do?”

“I had a feeling,” he admitted.

Jaskier sighed, snaking his arms around Geralt’s neck and idly twirling strands of hair around his fingers. “I slept around a lot,” he continued, biting his bottom lip, “but it was never more than that. You are… special, Geralt. To me. I don’t want to lose you and I’m afraid - ” Jaskier cut himself off, taking a shaky breath. “Sometimes I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.”

Geralt was powerful, beautiful. One day he would certainly come to his senses and break things off with Jaskier, find someone better - more _deserving_ \- of his love.

“I will never leave you,” he said, surprisingly firm as he pulled him even closer, eyes dark, “not by choice.”

Jaskier smiled, unable to help himself, eyes crinkling. “Good,” he said, “because I don’t know what I’d do - where I’d go - without you.”

“Hmm,” was the only reply he got. Leaning forward, Geralt nosed at his hair. Jaskier closed his eyes with a sigh, eyelashes fluttering. His insecurities couldn’t be so easily swept away, as he would quickly learn, but it was a start, the best of starts.


End file.
